by Carolyne Lee, an Australian Francophile

I often feel an affinity with the French language, and some words in particular make perfect sense to me, are more natural to me than English words. Take, for example, the verb “parler”, which is “to speak”. “I speak” is “je parle”. Of course I parle. You parles, we parlons, they parlent. There’s more onomatopoeic sense than in “I speak”. But then I hear some words that completely confound me even after I find out their translation. Words that seem absurd, such as “pétoncles”, which is “scallops”. Why on earth is there a word like “pétoncle”? And then there’s the ungainly “soutien-gorge” for bra.

I suppose this ridiculous, almost-anger-type reaction must be an expression of culture shock. It’s surprising what you can be bothered by, even after almost five months. For example, the other day in the supermarket I was shopping for salad, and had in mind a crisp, simple iceberg lettuce. Alas, iceberg lettuces are difficult to get in France, at least in winter. The French have incredible lettuces, actually, lettuces of all different shades that open up into a large, sprawling flower-type-things and that are delicious. But as I realised there were no icebergs, I gazed upon the bed of massive, sprawling, weirdly-coloured lettuces as if they were triffids. At my supermarket, they’ve got a machine that sprays a fine mist over the lettuces to keep them fresh, but to me, in my state of disgust, it seemed as if the lettuces were mutant animal-vegetables that required constant feeding by osmosis. One of the ways in which I’ve gotten over this horror is by discovering the most delicious salad in the world: mâche. It comes in tiny little florets, is dark green, and has a sweet and nutty flavour. It doesn’t exist in Australia, but it’s incredible, much tastier than the iceberg, and I eat it every day. It’s like praline chocolate disguised as a leaf.

A bit more on words: I’ve been having a wonderful time discovering and practising French expletives, such as “merde”, “enculé”, and the therapeutically onomatopoeic “putain” (you have to spit out the “p” and you let the “ain”, without pronouncing the “n”, extend in proportion with your annoyance or shock). And, if you’re really annoyed, you say “putain bordel de merde” (basically, whorehouse of excrement). It’s interesting that the two most common expressions of disgust or annoyance – “putain” and “bordel”, (“quel bordel” signifying “what a mess!” “what a disaster!”) —refer to, respectively, women prostitutes and brothels. Perhaps this reflects a historic taboo that encompasses sex, paid-sex, and perhaps a certain misogyny, that isn’t so apparent in Australia. Our primarily expletive – fuck – has sexual connotations but it is by no means gendered or indicative of particular modes of sex. On the other hand, I highly doubt that the common Anglophone derogatory expression “that’s so gay” would have a translation in French. Oh, but of course, Australia also has the dreadful “c**t”, which is much worse than “putain”, using, as it does, the vagina as a most offensive insult.

Despite the prevalence with which swear words, or “gros mots” are used, France is an incredibly polite society. Not saying “Bonjour” or “bonsoir” to the shopkeeper when you enter their realm, or to the other inhabitants of your apartment building when you see them, is considered rude. Of course, I’m speaking in particular here about the south of France. The politeness of Southern France is, I believe, well demonstrated by the case of drunken and lecherous men who approach you at night when you’re walking home. Whilst in Australia you can expect to hear a slurred “Hey, wanna root?” or “nice tits”, I’ve had one drunken and amorous man slur “You’re so beautiful” and another ask “Would you like to have a coffee with me?”. The intent is the same, but the expression is so different that it almost makes the experience a delight, if not amusing.

And, speaking of well-wishes, the French are delightfully exact with this pleasantry. Of course there’s “have a nice day”, used very often, but there’s also “have a nice start of the week”, “have a nice end of the week”, “have a nice end of the day” and “have a nice end of the month”. This might reflect a heightened awareness of temporal specificity, or perhaps it’s just a cute convention.

Another lovely thing here is that inviting someone, or being invited, to dinner becomes a real event, even if it happens on a Monday night. Any half-decent host will provide five courses: apero (basically, fancy nibbles), entrée, main course, cheese course (at least three types), and desert. And it’s customary for invitees to bring the host a bouquet of flowers, and / or chocolates and of course wine. But while guests show their gratitude with gifts, verbal expressions of appreciation of the food tend not to be as exuberant or extensive as they are in Australia, or at least this has been the case in my experience.

One especially great thing about living in a foreign-language speaking country is that, at least for a little while, it’s impossible to pick up on verbal cues that indicate social status. You have to work so hard just to figure out exactly what the other person has said that it’s impossible to read that person’s speech for signs of, for example, class, (non-)hipness, or (sub-)cultural affiliation.  And, to a lesser extent, the same applies to the visual codes of clothing. Because you simply have no idea, you’re freed from making those inevitable and often involuntary judgements about people based on subtle social codes, and you can simply take them for exactly what they say and do, they become simply human (the downside of this, however, is that sometimes it’s difficult to pick up on cues that tell you whether someone is a little weird, a little off, whether you should avoid them. These cues, too, can be very culturally relative.) Sadly, this ability to not judge slowly disappears as you learn the cultural currency.

And I imagine that it goes both ways, to some extent: it’s the markers of “foreigner” and “Australian” that will dominate people’s reading of you, at least for a little while, and which will completely obscure other kinds of pigeonholing, such as, for example, “elitist academic type” or “un-ironic, mainstream, reality-tv-loving type”. It’s a bit like an erasure of the social identity that you’ve built in your home country, and this is aided by the fact that sometimes (especially at the beginning, when you’re struggling with the language), you simply cannot expressive yourself as you otherwise would. Sometimes this is challenging and very destabilising (we work hard for our cultural identities), but it’s also massively freeing.

(Australian guest-blogger Romana Byrne has lived in France since late August 2011)

After so many visits to Paris during the soldes, I didn’t think I could get very excited about them anymore. But today I discovered that my favourite English bookstore in Paris, The Red Wheelbarrow, at 22 rue Saint Paul, in the 4th arrondissement (phone: 01 48 04 75 08), is having a very serious sale indeed. I’ve always loved visiting this bookshop, as much for the welcoming owner and her staff as for the astute and wide-ranging choice of books.You can read the history of the bookshop here.

It’s also a great excuse to visit the gorgeous Marais area (as if one needs an excuse!), and more specifically the Village Saint Paul, just near the bookshop.

Details of the sale:

25% off all hard-bound non-fiction books

Selected children’s hardbound PICTURE books: 12€

Selected paperbound picture books:10€ plus, buy 2  paperbound children’s picture books on sale, and get a 3rd one free (= 3 paperbound children’s picture books, 20€)

There’s also a big  table in the center of the shop, with every paperbound fiction title on the table only 10 euros (plus, buy 10, get an 11th free = 11 paperbound fiction books for 100 euros)

The shop is open 7 days, 10 a.m. to 7 p.m. except Monday 10-6 p.m. and Sunday noon (or sometimes a little later) to 6 p.m.

by guest blogger Romana Byrne, an Australian who has been living in France since August 2011.

I’ve been thinking a little about how France and Australia differ regarding gender roles, sexuality, and cultural practices, and thought I’d share this with escapetoparis readers to see what you think.

Some of the most interesting cultural differences that I have observed pertain to gender roles. Despite France’s reputation for valuing sensuality and seduction, the heterosexual courtship practices here evidence strict and decidedly conservative gender roles. I’ve discussed this matter with a few people here now, and there seems to be very clear conventions. In matters of seduction, it is often, nearly always, the male who pursues, makes the first move, and nearly always the female who waits, acts cool, plays hard to get, and certainly never sleeps with her pursuer on the first date (or even the second), unless she definitely wants to leave the event as a one-night-stand and nothing more. If she transgresses these rules, she’s “easy” and therefore her value reduces significantly. Of course, not knowing these rules, and coming from a culture where it is acceptable for the female to take a more “active” role in the courtship process, I’ve completely flouted them (fortunately with someone who is too intelligent and culturally sensitive to think of me as a slut!).  Also, I had a friend who began courting a French man, and it was a month before she slept with him (Philippe tells me this is not too unusual); can you imagine an Australian man waiting that long?

Surely this male-pursues, female-holds-back-and-waits dynamic must be restricted to heterosexual contexts; surely the rules-of-procedure for women must change somewhat in lesbian communities, or else there wouldn’t be much happening at all after everyone leaves the nightclub. Or perhaps one takes a designated “male” or “female” role? I’m afraid I haven’t really had a chance to personally investigate queer French courtship yet.

Curiously, in contrast with the rather constricted gendered courtship roles, French heterosexual masculinity appears to be much less narrow than the Australian variety. That is, the “average” (I know this is a problematic term, but bear with me) heterosexual French male can do, and most certainly does, a whole variety of things that would compromise an “average” Australian male’s sense of heterosexual virility, such as frequent tea salons (there are many wonderful salons du thé here), take courses in acting, dancing and singing, appreciate literature and poetry, express his emotions at length, and dress himself with attention to elegance and dignity.

Actually, the broader issue to which this is connected is the more central role of what we vaguely refer to as “culture”. What we might think of as “cultured activities” in Australia – going to the theatre or an independent, non-block-buster art gallery, for example – are par-for-the course, no-brainer Saturday afternoon outings for most people, and are not tied to education level or the position you might hold in the arts industry. And cultural artefacts that we might consider “high-brow”, “art-house” or “indie” in Australia – like old French films, graphic novels, avant-garde literature, Molière and an affected melancholy, for instance – are positively mainstream in France. In contrast to the situation in which I lived in Melbourne, where most of my friends have or are doing PhDs and can boast a privileged training in cultural knowledge, and own plenty of cultural capital, I’m very aware that the social milieu I inhabit here is, in the main, profoundly ordinary in terms of cultural, scholastic, and economic wealth. And this makes the disjuncture between Australian and French modes of linking identity with cultural consumption and activities all the more striking.

Anyway, if any readers have any thoughts on the matter – even if you think I’m completely wrong – I’d love to hear them.

My previous photo showed the famous Pont Neuf – or ‘New Bridge’ – of Toulouse, seen from a distance of several hundred metres in the hazy Autumn light. Here, I am standing again on the east bank of the river Garonne, but this time on the south side of the bridge beside the first arch and below the Quai de Tounis.

Built of bricks and stone, the construction took from 1544 to 1632, although the bridge was not inaugurated until 16 October, 1659, in the reign of King Louis XIV. The laying of the foundations took many years, and the first arch was not commenced until 1614. I presume it was the one nearest to the camera, since this is the side of the old city itself. Interestingly, the bridge is not symmetrical, and the highest point occurs above the third arch of the seven, rather than above the middle arch, as can be clearly seen in my photo. This arch is the largest of them, with a span of 30 metres.

Today, the Pont Neuf is still perhaps Toulouse’s most renowned historic structure, and used daily by thousands of pedestrians, cyclists and vehicles.

(guest post by photographer Andrew McRae)

This photo in Toulouse was taken one afternoon last week as I walked beside the Garonne along the Quai de Lucien Lombard towards the Pont Neuf. It was the first really sunny day for over a week and many people sat on the quays enjoying the sun as it shone in the hazy sky of late Autumn. A romantic young couple caught my attention.

The Garonne is one of France’s principal rivers, flowing 575 km from its origin in the glaciers of the Pyrenees, on the Spanish side of the border. It ends its journey in the Bay of Biscay estuary, La Gironde near Bordeaux, where it meets the Dordogne. Passing through Toulouse it is too shallow and bedevilled by treacherous currents for boats, and so its broad surface is often very tranquil, devoid of all traffic except the occasional rower or police launch. I saw the rather strange sight today of a man propelling himself along in the middle of the river while standing on a narrow kayak.

The graceful Pont Neuf was built between 1544 and 1632, and inaugurated in 1659.

(guest post by photographer Andrew McRae)

Every week here in Toulouse brings me a new discovery: a tiny shop with the créatrice (designer) sitting at her sewing maching in the middle of it, making brooches and bags, a mercerie (haberdashery) selling exquisite ribbons and buttons, a new walk along a quai where you think you are in Venice, a string of bustling and tightly-packed traditional restaurants, arrayed end to end above the Victor Hugo market.

My latest find is a delightful little shop, a boutique-atelier, at no. 4 Quai de la Daurade, just near Pont Neuf, before the Ecole des Beaux Arts. The intriguing name, Mapie des Vignes made me look twice, as did the sign in the window, ‘Mes créations a vos mesures’ (‘My creations made to your measurements’). Mapie (short for Marie-Pierre) is the name of the shop’s owner/designer, and Mapie des Vignes is her own label.

The concept is that she has several of each of her designs made up in the shop, so that clients can order the pieces they like, made especially to their exact measurements.The designs are stylish and simple, in beautiful natural fabrics, some of which she also sells by the metre.  I bought some orange silk to line a skirt-in-progress, and some black wool threaded through with coloured ribbons, also for a skirt.

The boutique also hosts other créatrices and their collections of textile art—be it brooches, embroidery, jewellery, or other creations. At the time of my visit I saw these beautiful felt brooches, in the shapes of flowers and butterflies. Also in the shop was a colourful range of rings and earrings. There’s absolutely no excuse for anyone in Toulouse to be unable to find the most original  Christmas presents.